No Cause for Alarm Clocks
by H.J. Bender
Summary: A short story detailing one of Crowley’s infernal household gadgetries, and why he’ll never have sex in front of it ever again. Slash.


**No Cause for Alarm Clocks  
****Author:** H.J. Bender  
**Rating:** R for violent C/A slash and language.  
**Summary:** A short story detailing one of Crowley's infernal household gadgetries, and why he'll never have sex in front of it ever again.  
**Disclaimer:** Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett own _Good Omens_ and everything to do with it. I only own this fic.  
**Feedback:** Please?  
**Author's Notes: **Inspired by my own infernal device that is not nearly as cool as Crowley's.

"_I must govern the clock, not be governed by it._"  
-Golda Meir

Crowley really didn't need to own an alarm clock, being that he was quite capable of waking himself up on time at sheer will, but he owned one regardless if he needed one or not. He kept it on the little table beside his bed, right next to his state-of-the-art cordless telephone and fashionable touch lamp that never needed to be touched in order for it to light up. And since Crowley always had to have the best and newest -if however useless- appliances on the market, his alarm clock was no exception. If Mercedes-Benz made timepieces, Crowley would own one. 

This particular subject was a digital radio alarm clock with one of those built-in antenna chips designed to give the clearest radio reception even if you lived in an aluminum shed with walls a quarter inch thick. It had a liquid crystal display screen that glowed intensely enough to cut through several layers of Hell™ brand darkness, and it even flashed one of ten friendly, cheerful marquees when the alarm went off. Crowley had his set to the one with the goldfish that swam back and forth across the screen and blew bubbles with smiley faces in them, but only because it was the least lame when compared to the other nine.

It also doubled as a smoke and carbon monoxide detector, which made it all the more useless to an immortal who had no particular reason to breathe anyway.

It had sixteen programmable methods of rousing a person depending upon their preference, methods such as the Suddenly Awake setting where the selected music station, buzzer, ringer or beeper would go off at maximum volume and give the faint of heart a series of small palpitations. Then there was the Gentle Nudge setting where the alarm would start softly and then gradually increase in volume until the sleeper was nagged awake.

It had a Wink button, a Snooze button and a Nap button, all of which went off at various times in four different modes if the sleeper wasn't awoken at the indicated hour. Its modes were Normal, High, Red, and Panic. If a person wasn't awake before Red, they were certainly awake after one seventy-fifth of a second of Panic.

All in all it was a fairly simple appliance that was needlessly complicated by lots of useless accessories, a powerhouse of computer intelligence crammed into a shiny black piece of plastic that was probably worth as much as a sock full of rocks for all Crowley was concerned. He liked having it, even if he never used it. It made him seem like the type of sleek, fashionable human who always needed to be awoken right on time by a sleek, fashionable clock, usually at a ridiculous hour reserved for people who always had somewhere important to be in another country.

Crowley was proud of his high tech lifestyle, though he sometimes regretted it.

Like Friday night around eleven o'clock, to be exact.

° ° °

It had been a fairly routine evening out but after a half gross of shots of Bat Blood°, as the saying often goes, one thing led to another and another and another until at last no anothers remained to unbutton or pull down, and everyone was quite a bit naked and drunk and insatiably horny. (°_Which has nothing to do with bats or their blood at all but is probably just as harsh on one's liver._)

"Everyone" just so happened to mean Crowley and Aziraphale, and what they were doing currently was tearing each other to pieces all over the demon's bed.

"Ahn, you motherfucker," Aziraphale uttered between clenched teeth as he gave a tug to the handful of Crowley's dark hair in his fist. "Come and get it."

Crowley responded with a deep, penetrating bite to that sensitive area at the base of the angel's neck before rolling him over onto his back and pinning him down at last. Aziraphale cried out at the sensation of sharp canines puncturing his skin, but yielded to the victor whom had managed to overpower him. However, admission of defeat was no grounds for complete submission; with almost morbid relish he released Crowley's hair and raked both rigid hands down the demon's back.

"Ssss, basstard!" Crowley hissed, seizing Aziraphale by the throat and grimacing in agony as tiny red droplets began to bead from the fiery red trails left in the wake of ten nicely manicured fingernails.

Aziraphale laughed wantonly in his opponent's face, and Crowley snarled in acknowledgment of the challenge. They kissed, they bit, they drew blood, they rolled again. They bruised each other mercilessly and spat curses back and forth between scorching sweet alcohol-scented gasps. Blasphemous tongues grazed searing paths across sweat and salt and skin, yet somehow during the course of this violent tournament love was made.

There was nothing human about it at all; like mating dragons, deadly with their flaming mouths and poisonous talons but with soft, vulnerable underbellies of tender scales that when stroked made them purr like great beasts. It was only appropriate that the rivalry between such powerful beings of Heaven and Hell should be as intense in bed as it was on the battlefield. They loved as hard as they fought, equal in passion and fervour so that any observer –God forbid– would have trouble distinguishing a single trace of gentleness and affection in the way they bruised and bled each other so recklessly.

It could easily be said that the angel and the demon didn't make love at all.

They made _fire_.

"Ahhn, you fit just right," Aziraphale breathed, biting Crowley's ear as the demon rocked above him smoothly and rhythmically. "Come inside me this time. I want to feel you there."

Crowley was just opening his mouth, no doubt to whisper some lush, loin-trembling reply when suddenly the radio alarm clock on the bedside table spoke:

CROWLEY? ARE YOU THERE?

All sexual passion went out like a light and intercourse drew to a grinding halt as the demon and the angel stared at each other with wide, sober eyes.

"Oh _shit_," said Crowley.

"God damn it," said Aziraphale.

And then the explosive, frantic scrambling commenced.

HELLO, CROWLEY? THIS IS DAGON. THERE ARE IMPORTANT MATTERS THAT MUST BE DISCUS-

"Ah, j-just a sec," the demon called, wrapping a corner of the bed sheet around himself and combing his disheveled hair into place. Aziraphale had simply pulled the covers over his body and was pretending to be a man-shaped lump in the mattress. "Er, right then. What now, lord?"

WE WERE GOING THROUGH YOUR FILE LAST WEEK CROWLEY, AND WE NOTICED THAT YOU HAVEN'T MET THE MINIMUM WAGE BASE YET.

"Uh, yes, right, see, about that…"

IT'S NEARLY THE END OF THE QUARTER, CROWLEY.

"Yes, lord, I'm aware of that-"

WHAT'S THE DILLY-O, CROWLEY?

"What?"

THIS WILL BE THE THIRD CONSECUTIVE YEAR YOU'VE FAILED TO MEET YOUR SOUL QUOTA. IS THERE SOMETHING WE SHOULD KNOW ABOUT, CROWLEY? EXTRACURRICULAR PROJECTS, SUBCONTRACTS PERHAPS?

"No, lord. It's just that…"

JUST WHAT, CROWLEY?

There came a disgruntled huff and movement beneath the covers.

"…this is a really bad time right now. Couldn't you, erm, contact me later or something?"

WHY LATER? ARE YOU UP TO SOMETHING, CROWLEY?

"Yes, actually. I was, ah, right in the middle of a task."

WHAT SORT OF TASK, CROWLEY?

The demon faltered, and Aziraphale had finally had enough of it. Wrenching the covers off of himself, he sprang up and grabbed Crowley by the shoulders, pulling him downward with a cry of, "O, thou wicked fiend! Thou insatiable _cur_! By the grace of the Almighty Father, you'll not have me!"

OH. _THAT_ SORT OF TASK.

"_What are you doing_?" Crowley hissed fearfully to his accomplice.

"Just play along," whispered Aziraphale, and then he slapped Crowley across the face. Hard. "Curse thee, vile serpent! How darest thou tempt an angel into thy sickening, lustful embrace!" Then he began to struggle and squirm for no apparent reason.

Crowley finally got the hint, and they essentially picked up where they had left off before the call from Down Below had come in, only this time it sounded like a poorly-acted pornographic film. Not that pornographic films are particularly noted for their fine acting anyway.

"Foolish angel! It is by your own fault that you'll be, uh, Felled." Crowley declared in an utterly unconvincing tone as he fought to overpower the heavenly being once more. "You shall beg for death after I claim your innocence."

"Ravage me as thou wilt, hellish villain—my halo shan't be tainted!"

GO FOR IT, CROWLEY.

But Crowley needed no heeding; he leaned down to whisper in Aziraphale's ear, "You are extremely fucking hot right now, angel."

"So are you," Aziraphale uttered, pressing a moist kiss to the lips above him. "Let's do it. Now."

"In front of Dagon?"

"Yes. _Bastard spawn of Hell, release me from thy clutches ere I smite thee with the stroke of righteousness!_"

Slap. Scratch. Spit. Bleed.

DON'T LET IT GET AWAY WITH THAT, CROWLEY. SHOW THAT ANGEL WHO'S BOSS.

"Scream all you like, my lovely. Heaven won't hear your cries."

"Filthy demon! Unh!"

"Shut your mouth and take it like a seraph!"

"Oh! Ohhh! Ahh!"

THAT'S IT, CROWLEY! BRING IT DOWN!

And some_how_, some_way_, between the melodramatic, archaic verbal farce and Dagon's horrifically sinister cheerleading from the radio alarm clock, Crowley and Aziraphale both reached climax and provided a fairly convincing example of how violent sex can be before it's considered legally nonconsensual.

The exhausted and thoroughly wounded demon rolled over with a pained grunt as Aziraphale pretended to be unconscious, which, taking into account that exhibitionism added an extra element of excitement, wasn't all that far from the truth.

WELL DONE, CROWLEY.

"Thank you, lord," he panted, half delirious.

THE BOYS AT THE OFFICE WILL BE GLAD TO HEAR ABOUT THIS.

"That'd be great."

I'M SURE THEY'LL BE WILLING TO PARDON YOUR MISSED QUOTAS, GIVEN THE FACT THAT YOU'VE JUST DEFLOWERED AN ANGEL. GOOD WORK, CROWLEY.

"Yes, lord. Thank you."

I'LL BE IN TOUCH, CROWLEY.

"Wonderful."

BYE-BYE, CROWLEY.

"…bye-bye."

And then the radio alarm clock was a radio alarm clock again, but for some reason it was left on a station broadcasting the latest football match to the tune of thousands of cheering, screaming fans. Crowley reached over and slapped the button, silencing the roar of a lot of manic humans. He put a hand over his face and made a weak, dismayed sort of groan in his throat.

Aziraphale rolled over and propped himself up on one elbow. "You know," he said as he idly began to play with Crowley's hair, "you owe me for that one."

"I do," admitted Crowley.

"I think perhaps a good old-fashioned demon wrestling ought to put me on good terms with my superiours."

"Oh please, Aziraphale…" the demon wheedled shamelessly.

"Crowley, if I can have an orgasm in front of your supervisor, you can at least feign defeat in a staged wrestling match."

Crowley moped. The angel leaned down and kissed a bloody scratch on his forehead, which made things a little better.

"Well," he said with reluctant humour, "all right. But none of that pile-driving, backbreaking American pro-wrestling stuff, okay? I've got a delicate constitution."

"Agreed," chuckled Aziraphale. "But Crowley, love, there _is_ one thing that I need you to do for me first…"

° ° °

A few moments later, a radio alarm clock sailed out of the sky, landed on the pavement outside of a fancy apartment building, and smashed into lots of shiny plastic splinters.

**_The End_**


End file.
